


Denkanstöße

by orphan_account



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Family, Gen, Spoilers, basically evil Captain von Trapp, canon typical anti-semitism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breakfast is a family affair, and they don't have long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denkanstöße

**Author's Note:**

> _Denkanstöße_ : Food for Thought

When John sleeps, he dreams of the camps. 

When he wakes, he slips from the bed with practiced ease. If Helen stirs she will worry and question and he loves her but he cannot stand her pity. 

His uniform hangs pressed and ready. He doesn't know if he feels better with it on or off in these moments. The glow from the girls’ hallway nightlight is enough to dress in some semblance of order, so he does. He supposes it gives him a sense of purpose.

Downstairs a bottle of 120 proof whiskey is tucked in the lowest drawer in his office desk, half empty and three years old. He doesn't often indulge, only when he can't rid his mouth of the sour tang of bile. Usually he sits behind the wood and glass as the morning grays, checks and rechecks reports, scrutinizes personnel assessments, judges performance and skill and above all loyalty. There are always the files of half whispered rumors of new tapes, potential contacts and Semite resistance locations. Erich writes in the margins his opinions on examination or extermination. He’s usually right.

Sometimes John ignores them all and reaches for the photo album, just sits and remembers.

Today he worries, and time drips by.

Eventually he hears the first dim sounds of waking, the bathtub filling and the dull thumping of Thomas’ morning exercise routine. Something in his chest clenches and he runs a tired hand over his face.

Then the girls are awake, already dressed and laughing as they tumble down the stairs and run to the kitchen. He realizes he's lost time, leaves the soft seclusion of his office to join his family. Helen has made pancakes, a treat, and the children squeal in delight. She pulls something green and gelatinous and vegetable filled from the refrigerator and their lips turn down and their noses wrinkle. John tries very hard not to grimace. He doesn't quite succeed. 

Helen glances over and his smile is pained and obvious. She rolls her eyes and tells them to set the table.

A moment later Thomas comes into view, halfway down the stairs toting his usual stack of books and reports. John resists the urge to go to him, to muss his hair and take his satchel and hold him close. He wants to, so badly, but then his son is past him and stacking his plate full. 

They sit around the table together, as always. Helen asks the girls about school, their teachers and the boy named Ralph who pulls Jennifer’s braids. John chokes down the aspic for the sake of example but says nothing when he catches Thomas trying to slip it down to Max, who sniffs in vague interest before settling under Helen’s chair for the tidbits she claims not to drop. They share a secret smile and John mushes the rest of the vile thing under his last pancake. Someone dribbles the syrup on the table and they laugh.

In all, it is the same morning as the last thousand and John feels about to burst. They sit as if nothing is wrong, chatting like their son and brother isn't dying. He itches to tell them something, anything to assuage the anger and the fear and the pain.

It would be a mercy, the doctor said. And Helen would agree.

_You must trust the woman in your life with your life Joe. ___

But, apparently, he cannot. Not with his son's. 

That little brown case is locked in his bottom desk drawer next to the whiskey. Every time he sees it he wants to snatch it up, crush the syringe and throw the fucking thing as far from Thomas and their life as he can. 

He hasn't, and that frightens him most of all.

Thomas excuses himself and goes to pull on his boots. Hitler Youth Elite Corps, 0700 sharp, Mondays Wednesdays and Saturdays. He’s leaving early, and John recalls something about extra games practice. He stands. 

“It's cold this morning, I'll drive you.” 

Thomas looks back at him, hand already grasping the doorknob. 

“It's only half a mile, I need the warm up-” 

“Nonsense.” 

“But I won’t make the finals if I don’t do my best.” He's opened the door. 

Helen comes to kiss her son goodbye and John scrambles for a perilous moment, he's so tired and he's not thinking straight. He looks at his son and sees the blank brown gaze of his brother, wheelchair bound and drooling. 

“I need to be in early for a meeting anyway, wait just a moment.” Thomas shrugs and slips out to the car. 

His wife gives him an odd look and John musters his best loving husband smile as he pulls on his coat. Apparently it is enough. She reaches up to kiss him on the cheek says something about getting the girls ready for their recital. He doesn’t really hear her, the words are a murmur behind the car door slamming shut. He brushes her hand as he steps out. 

He drops his son off at the practice field and drives to his office. It's too early for most of the morning personnel and the halls and elevators are blessedly empty. He walks to the office without interruption. 

John settles in and tries to think of the job at hand, anything else but home. 

Home does not belong here. 

Erich brings him the day's agenda and sits across the desk, begins his briefing on a visiting Japanese official, not really their area but one which demands his rank. There are the concerns of the number of extermination quotas and likely resistance interference. John nods absently at something and Erich pauses, gives him a soft look which John only tolerates for his years of service and three bullets. 

“I'm just a little tired, it's still early. Go on. You were saying Jersey is not going as well as expected.” 

His aide stands. 

“I'll go and get some tea Obergruppenfuhrer.” 

When he's closed the door John rubs his face and sighs, pulls himself together and starts his work. 

**Author's Note:**

> It is incredibly difficult to write John Smith without glossing over the fact that, ya know, he's a Nazi. I've done my best. As always, concrit extremely appreciated.


End file.
